


After the Note

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Suicidal Thoughts, although you can't really see that in this fic for reasons that will become obvious, season 4 fix-it, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 07:48:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11375778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sherlock stumbles slightly, but catches himself and charges to the door—locked.I can’t knock and wait at the door while she does whatever she wishes. I could break in, but that would also cause delay and alert her to my presence … The windows, all around the therapy room. I can break through those in an instant.Having lost mere seconds considering his options, he charges around the side of the house, barreling towards the windows of the therapy room—and everything grinds to a sickening halt.John.





	After the Note

**Author's Note:**

> This post ties loosely in with theories/readings of _The Final Problem_ as John's nightmare while bleeding out, but it approaches the story from Sherlock's perspective and could easily be read as a complete erasure of _The Final Problem_ which begins at the end of _The Lying Detective_ , so no worries if you aren't familiar with those theories!
> 
> The story was largely inspired by Marce's theories on Tumblr. For a bit of background or just for some great meta, read the posts linked here: [x](http://marcespot.tumblr.com/post/156443068634) [x](http://marcespot.tumblr.com/post/157237975539) [x](http://marcespot.tumblr.com/post/157229581249) and [x](http://marcespot.tumblr.com/post/157230031462)
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock stares at the paper, uncomprehending. “Miss Me?” Slowly his mind begins moving. _She is real. Faith. I didn’t hallucinate her. But … She wasn’t Faith. And she is connected to Moriarty? Or did she appropriate his words to frighten me? But who IS she?_ His mind gradually picking up speed, Sherlock begins cycling through images of everyone he has seen these past few days, searching for any hint of the woman's existence, any proof that she isn’t a construct of his drugged consciousness: _fake-Faith, real-Faith, the hospital staff, _his mind is racing now, fixating on face after face: _Culverton’s staff, the cereal advertisers, John’s therapist, Norbury_ —he pulls up short. John’s therapist. He focuses back the image, setting it alongside fake-Faith, looking from different angles, trying to conjure a clear picture from his drug-addled memories. It’s her, he is sure of it—almost. Different eye color, hair, stance, accent—but the essential features are the same. _How did I miss it? Wait—what’s today? Friday. Time? 12:30. Oh God, no. Friday, 12:30. John is there now. If John is hurt because I was too full of drugs to see through a costume_ … He shoves the thought fiercely aside, but he is already running.  
                                           __

* * *

__

____

“Drive as fast as you can!” Sherlock shoves money at the cabbie—he isn’t sure how much, but it’s far more than will compensate for the short drive—"a life might depend on it!” _God, don’t let that be true._ Apparently pleased with the money, the driver moves at a reckless pace. Sherlock couldn’t be more grateful. During the brief, interminably long drive, he tries to steady himself, searching his mind palace for something, anything that would give him a clue as what was going on. He draws a blank, but it helps pass the time—and as the cab draws up to the house he is out the door before the car has properly stopped.

__

He stumbles slightly, but catches himself and charges to the door—locked. _I can’t knock and wait at the door while she does whatever she wishes. I could break in, but that would also cause delay and alert her to my presence … The windows, all around the therapy room. I can break through those in an instant._ Having lost mere seconds considering his options, Sherlock charges around the side of the house, barreling towards the windows of the therapy room—and  everything grinds to a sickening halt.  _John._

__

John is lying face up on the red carpet, the right side of his face towards the window. He is alone. He is screaming. And he is pressing the barrel of a gun against his right temple.

__

Sherlock is moving again, covering the space between himself and the window in an instant. It takes everything in him not to burst through the glass, or at least pound on it, but some still-functioning corner of his mind tells him that he mustn’t startle John; a shock might cause the finger already curled around the trigger to jerk and …

__

“John!” He speaks loudly, struggling to simulate a semblance of calm. _The glass is too thick for any coherent speech to carry through, but if I can just get John to hear my voice, to turn and look at me_ … John turns his head, and his eyes fix on Sherlock, and— _no … No._  Sherlock had implicitly assumed that things couldn’t be worse than that first sight of John had implied. He was wrong. He has never so sickeningly hated being wrong. 

__

The right side of John’s face is a mess of blood. _The bullet hit the top of the cheekbone, fragments flew up and destroyed John’s eye. He will never see from it again._ The deductions appear without discernible mental processing; Sherlock is passively struck by them, and they are like a physical blow. _He will never see from his left eye again. Please let that be the only consequence. Please._  Sherlock vaguely registers the sickeningly large stain in on the deep red carpet, the stain he had’t observed in his first frenzy at the sight of the gun.

__

A strangled sound escapes from Sherlock, but a small comfort mingles unexpectedly with the horror: _this isn’t suicide; not really. Someone else–almost certainly the therapist, the woman I failed to recognize–shot him. He’d never have made such a clumsy job of it himself. So he doesn’t want to die and he is still alive. That’s good; that’s good. But if he is contemplating finishing the job, he must think he has no chance of survival, and he is a doctor, he would know … No, no, stop that; there is was no way John is thinking clearly, and besides he wouldn’t have known that someone would find him in time. (How could he not have known? Doesn’t he understand that I will always, always find him?)_

__

As these thoughts dash through his mind, Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on John— _just make sure he keeps looking, don’t let him look away_ —although he isn’t sure John is seeing him properly; his eyes seem glazed and unfocused. At the same time he pulls out his phone and dials 999, holding the phone up towards the glass as he explains to the stranger on the line what had happened— _how is it possible that saying it out loud makes it so much worse when the whole nightmare is lying in front of me, when my John is writhing in pain because I wasn’t paying attention when it mattered most_ —willing John to understand that help is on the way, that he just needs to wait and bear it for a few moments more. _Put the gun down, John, put it down!! Don’t you understand? Help is coming, it’s coming … Okay, just keep looking at me then, just don’t look away!_ “Three minutes,” says the stranger, and Sherlock stuffs the phone back in his pocket, holding up three fingers against the glass, still hoping that somehow John will get the message, _help is almost here_ ; but next moment he panics— _what if John thinks its a countdown, that I’m giving him permission to shoot, nodding my approval?_ Keeping those three fingers extended, Sherlock opens his remaining fingers, pressed both palms and his forehead against the glass, and starts talking again, loudly.

__

He isn’t sure whether he is talking more for John or himself, but although he knows the words won’t carry through the glass with any clarity, he hopes his voice might comfort John, reach him beneath that wrenching pain.

__

“John, listen to me, you can’t do this. Your life is not not your own—you cannot take it from Molly, and Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, and Rosie, and … and me. John, you know you can’t do this! You know it better than anyone because I did it to you. And that was unforgivable, and I understand that—more in this moment than I ever have—but the only excuse I give myself is that I didn’t know. I thought I was just a pastime for you, a fascinating anomaly—I thought if I just convinced you that I was a fake you’d be fine until I got back; a bit bored and aimless, but fine. But you know, John. You know because you’ve felt it yourself, and you know because you’ve seen me—seen me leap into the fire for you and kill for you and die for you. You know perfectly well that if you shoot yourself you are shooting me, too, only it’s worse for me, because I have to die and keep on living in death. You know this, John!” _But he doesn’t know all of it._ “But there’s even more than that, John. You can’t do this because even though you know how bad it was for you when I did it, you don’t know yet that it would be even worse for me. Because by some miracle of forbearance you care for me as your best friend, and mourned for me more than I had any right to be mourned. But that’s nothing to what this would do to me because … because …” _Can I say it? He won’t even hear me, so why is still so hard? But if I can’t say it now, I’ll never have the courage. And maybe I’ll never have another chance_ … “because I love you, John! I love you, I love you, I love you, John!” _Oh! I never imagined it would feel so good to say it aloud!_ “John, I love you!”

__

Until now John’s hazy, unfocused gaze has been turned in Sherlock’s direction. Now his eye closes, and he turns his face away, gun still pressed to his temple.

__

In that moment Sherlock loses all vestige of control. He pounds against the glass with a force that will leave them painfully bruised; he screams “JOHN!” and it is more a sound than a name—and John lowers the gun from his temple, and the hand clutching the gun falls heavily to the floor. 

__

Sherlock collapses to his knees, slumping against the glass, vision clouding over. But only for a moment. _The gun. It’s still in his hand. Too close. He could still_ …

__

Sherlock is up again, running again. _I can’t break the window near John and risk glass flying into his wound; but there is another window around the corner, leading into another room._ He flies around the corner and spots the window. _A heavy curtain is drawn across the window, which will contain the glass and increase injury. Irrelevant._  He flings himself into the window, grunting at the impact with the thick glass; but it shatters. His heavy coat protects most of his body, but blood seeps from his face and hands. He doesn’t notice apart from a slight sting in his left eye. He smiles faintly as he untangles himself from the curtain. _Just like John_.

__

Then he’s in the room, tearing the gun from John’s hand as desperately as he once tore explosives from John’s chest, and he is tossing the gun across the room, as far as possible, replacing the cold handle of the gun with his own warm, living, bleeding hands. _He’s not moving, he’s unconscious, oh please, no—he has a pulse. He’s alive. Alive._

__

When the paramedics arrive on site moments later, they find Sherlock on the floor, shaking violently, curled around his John’s living hand. Terrified to touch anything else for fear of making things worse, gathering every ounce of warmth from this single proof of life, this one allowed point of contact.

__

* * *

__

After a brief and disastrous attempt to pull him away, the paramedics allow Sherlock to ride with John in the ambulance. All Sherlock’s wounds are superficial, anyway. He never for an instant releases John’s hand, and he cringes at every jolt of the car. He speaks quietly, continually:

__

“You have to wake up, John. I know it hurts, and it’s okay if you can’t wake up right now. But you’re going to have to wake up sometime, okay? I have to tell you something. I told you earlier, but you couldn’t hear me because of the glass, and by the time I got inside you were already asleep. But I’m going to keep telling you. Is that alright? I love you, John. I won’t stop saying it until you wake up and hear me. I love you John, I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you …”

__


End file.
